


Concerning Adam Le Ray's Indiscretion

by NotTonightJosephine



Category: The Hour
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Substance Abuse?, Smoking, Spoilers for the end of season one, but at least it is less sad and more gay than canon, forgive my attempts to be English, forgive my sad gay angst, not really canon compliant for season two, semi-public blowjob, why is this A Thing in my fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 20:15:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10951920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotTonightJosephine/pseuds/NotTonightJosephine
Summary: "He was caught in a gentlemen's lavatory in Russell Square doing something he shouldn't. Apparently he's out on bail, poor sweetheart."





	Concerning Adam Le Ray's Indiscretion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pasiphile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphile/gifts).



> It's the cool thing to do to write Adam/Angus as tribute to pasiphile. They deserve all the Adam/Angus <3

"Fancy a fuck?"

Adam knows how to use his gaze, dark eyes heavy-lidded and promising. He licks his lips, and smiles, just a little, when the other man's eyes flick toward them. He's tall, taller than Adam, with fair hair and grey eyes, and he's been looking too, checking out Adam's arse as he entered the lavatory, glancing at his cock when they pissed side by side. Now he seems coy, a flush crawling up his face as he nudges his briefcase with the toe of one shined shoe. He checks the wristwatch cinched around his wiry wrist, and seems to come to a decision.

"The name's Frank," the man says, his voice middle class and climbing, and sticks his hand out for Adam to shake.

"Richard," Adam lies smoothly, and shakes the offered hand. He feels the absurd urge to laugh, a mounting hysteria at this pretence of civility.

It's just past 7 o'clock in the morning and Adam has been up all night. He started drinking at a dinner party in a town house belonging to one of Ralph's old uni chums, and has since taxied from house to house and wandered from bar to bar, has stumbled across an impromptu midnight picnic in a park, then visited a club offering all-night entertainment of various kinds, and was just headed to a house in Russell Square with a group of exceedingly friendly new friends, for a champagne breakfast to stave off the unwelcome approach of both sunrise and sobriety, when nature, as it were, called. 

He knows he's being reckless but he doesn't care.

Frank kisses with a passion bordering on desperation that Adam understands but doesn't want, not today. When he presses Adam up against the wall, one hand gripping Adam's hip and the other warm against the back of his neck, thumb rubbing at his jaw, Adam can barely react; only enjoy how the cold from the tiles seeps through his suit. Frank's hot kisses leave a thin film of saliva in their wake, a cooling trail down from Adam's mouth to the hollow of his throat and back. Adam struggles and fails to keep up, running his hands along Frank's sides and murmuring soft curses between kisses. When he notices Frank lingering too long on his neck, sucking hard on a single spot, Adam tries to pull him off but cannot get a grip on the short hair at the back of Frank's bent head.

He pushes Frank away instead, just enough so he has room to drop to his knees between those long spread legs. Frank puts one hand flat against the wall and runs the fingers of his other hand through Adam's hair, stiff with yesterday's product but coming unstuck. Adam wastes no time in unbuttoning Frank's trousers and trunks. He's hard already, they both are, and starved of tenderness. Adam goes slower than he knows he ought to, stroking, kissing, and licking, wringing pants and groans out of the other man. When he takes his cock deep, sucks and swallows, Frank gives a sharp cry and pitches forward, grabbing at an exposed pipe with one hand and biting down on his other fist.

The tiles are cold and hard beneath Adam's knees, grounding him when he wants to get lost in the intimate warmth and clean smell of this man. The lovebite on his neck throbs.

He misses Angus. He tries not to, tries to feel betrayed by the man's single-minded interest in self-preservation, but it's in moments like these that he wants to hear Angus' quiet gasps and dry laughter, wants him to light cigarettes and share them with him, wants to kiss the freckles on his forearms, feel those careful hands caress him, and steal his glasses to watch him squint at anything more than a foot away, anything that isn't Adam, close, so close.

Frank comes down his throat with a barely-muffled yell. Adam pulls off to swallow, tucks Frank's cock away while the man's still panting. He is leaning his head against Frank's lean thigh, warm and solid beneath the grey wool of his suit, when he hears footsteps approaching.

Frank straightens up and scrambles away, ricocheting off a cubicle partition and stumbling toward the door. He shoulders past the intruders without mumbling an apology to them or sparing a backward glance toward Adam. His suitcase stands forgotten by the sinks.

A blurred impression of dark blue serge resolves into two policemen when Adam rubs his bleary eyes. Again, he feels like laughing, but he chokes it down. He must look a mess; kneeling in last night's evening wear, hair mussed and lips kissed red, a bruise blooming above his open collar and his erection pressed against the placket of his trousers. He feels hot and cold and hollow.

"Bloody hell," the younger officer says slowly, awed, "I think I seen him on the telly, Sarge." He goggles down at Adam. "Ray, innit? Mister Ray?"

"Le Ray," Adam mutters, slumping back against the grimy tile wall. "Adam Le Ray." 

He had considered saying no, he's not an actor, his name is Frank Jackson, and claiming the abandoned suitcase as his own, saying he's running late for work if they'd excuse him. But it all seems like too much effort now. He manages a tired version of his usual dazzling smile.

The policemen stare down at him. Adam can almost hear the rusty cogs turning under the sergeant's helmet. What happened here? Who did they hear yelling? Was it assault or something even more despicable? Is he famous enough that arresting him would be lucrative or scandalous? Scandals can backfire, if the public like him more than they respect the force. But who would still like him after seeing him like this…

"Can I trouble you for a light, officer?" 

Adam stays slouched as he rummages in his jacket pocket for his cigarette case, forcing the lanky young plod to squat beside him with the lighter so he can stick his fag in the flame. He sucks, hollowing his cheeks, and meets the man's gaze.

"Thanks," Adam says, and blows a stream of smoke off to the side. 

The sergeant frowns at the doorway, then turns to frown at Adam. He mutters for his colleague to start documenting the conversation, then tugs at his greying moustache while the younger officer stands and fumbles for a pad and pencil.

"Who was that other fella wot left in such an hurry?" the sergeant finally says.

"Just some guy," Adam drawls, and almost laughs at their looks of mingled pity and disgust. "I didn’t catch his name." He waves his cigarette in the direction of the suitcase. "That was there when we arrived, it got us talking. Some poor sod out there is having a bad day, he said. I said I knew a better way to start the day…" He doesn't know why he's protecting the stranger who kissed too hard and bolted on him. But then again, he does. He takes another long drag on his cigarette. His erection is waning, at least.

"I think you'd better come with us, lad," the sergeant says.

Adam knows better than to ask if he's under arrest.

~*~

Adam sobers up slowly, reluctantly, in the damp chill of the holding cell. He tries to think about it like playing a role, like the grey light and thin mattress and rising nausea are happening to someone else, but he's not that good an actor. Or at least not good enough at lying to himself. He's angry, somewhere under all the apathy, absolutely shaking with rage. He naps fitfully. Hours pass.

He had been allowed a call on the big black wall-mounted telephone when he was first taken in, and had rung Angus' office. Angus was not in yet, but there were always keen secretaries on duty early and happy to take a message for the esteemed Press Advisor. Less happy, of course, when the message turned out to be that a mutual friend of Mr McCain and Ralph Sherwin, with a subtle and puzzling emphasis on the word _friend_ , had been arrested for some unspoken manner of inappropriate behaviour that morning and had no-one else to call. Certainly no-one who might be able to help.

Fucking Ralph, Adam thinks. For all his upper-class liberality he seems to consider their adolescent fumblings as mere experimentation, mere practice for the proper business of deflowering debutantes and marrying heiresses, and rather looks down upon Adam's inability to grow out of what he takes to be a childish fixation on boys. But he still finds it funny to get Adam drunk and watch him make a fool of himself. Just another type of snobbery, another brand of disgust. Another small betrayal. He won't go to Ralph for help. But Angus… Angus might understand.

The young plod, Constable Eddie Clarke as he shyly introduces himself, brings him a chipped enamel mug of strong sweet tea, and later a tray of baked beans, bangers and mash. Adam is grateful for the tea, but his roiling stomach can barely manage more than a few forkfuls of the rapidly cooling dinner. His head aches, and he's starting to feel grubby with the prickle of stubble and sweat, his starched collar slowly losing its shape. The constable still seems dazzled by Adam's waning glamour, the lure of celebrity. Adam supposes he shouldn't be ungrateful; his fame might just save him from infamy. 

It's dark outside the high barred window by the time the constable returns to Adam's cell, though the fluorescent lights had flickered on before the sun set. Adam blinks owlishly at the constable holding the door open with a strained smile. He seems genuinely apologetic when he leads Adam to the desk again and hands back his wallet, keys, and empty hipflask.

"No hard feelings, Mr Le Ray? I'm looking forward to seeing your next project." He pales and hastily adds: "When you're, ah, feeling better, of course."

"Let's not see you back here," the sergeant says, with something like sympathy in his eyes. "And go easy on the drink, lad. It won't replace what you're missing."

Adam nods solemnly, trying to cover his bafflement with an appropriately grief-stricken and contrite expression. He thanks them for their understanding and hospitality, giving them each a firm handshake and a tight smile before walking out through the station's front door.

He gets as far as the nearest pub before the hysterical laughter that's been threatening to burst out all day finally escapes and leaves him sobbing and choking for breath. When he's sufficiently recovered, if a little red-faced and wet-eyed, he orders a full bottle of whiskey and, feeling generous, lets the bartender keep the change from a five pound note. A double or two later and Adam has made up his mind. Bottle in hand, and only a little unsteady on his feet, he leaves the pub and starts the hour-long walk toward Kensington.

~*~

Adam amuses himself by flicking the knocker up and letting it fall with a brassy clunk, rapidly and repeatedly, for quite a while before Angus answers the door. His fussy little saviour looks severely put-upon, lips pursed and ginger eyebrows knit. 

"Hullo," Adam says brightly, "I brought whiskey." He presses the half-empty bottle against Angus' chest, enjoying the cheery sloshing sound it makes and how Angus sighs but stands aside to let him into the house anyway. But he's not nearly drunk enough to miss the way Angus glances anxiously up and down the street before locking the door.

"I was in the middle of supper," Angus says, tone a trifle testy. He brushes past Adam, leaning against the hall stand blinking in the low light, and stalks back into the living room without checking to see if Adam is following.

It's warm in Angus' house, the corridor carpeted and a new radiator installed in front of the bricked-up fireplace on the far wall of the living room. The dim light of several lamps illuminates a stack of newspapers and folders on the low table beside one armchair. A crumb-flecked toast rack and a half-full mug of hot chocolate sit on a tray next to them. Angus sets the whiskey bottle down on the tray too, a little more forcefully than is strictly necessary.

"Why are you here?" Angus asks, tone flat.

"Can I have some toast?" Adam mumbles from the doorway, looking anywhere but at Angus, "I'm famished."

Angus sighs again, and brushes past him to the kitchen. He stops abruptly in the hallway, and turns to face Adam. He eyes Adam's dishevelled appearance, one hand twitching upwards as if he wants to touch or tweak, then falling to his side again. His expression is faintly angry, but his voice is soft when he speaks.

"I'm going to run you a bath."

Adam laughs, startled. "I'm not a stray puppy, Angus, I just missed tea."

"Bath first, then toast," Angus says dryly, disappearing toward the bathroom. "You stink."

When he returns several minutes later, waistcoat still on but shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow, Angus finds Adam perched on the cushioned arm of his armchair and pouring whiskey into Angus' mug. Eyes sparkling, Adam lifts the mug toward Angus in a mock toast and then downs the spiked hot chocolate in a few long swallows.

Angus only rolls his eyes at the display.

By the time Angus has made and buttered more toast, cut the slices into triangles, arranged them in the toast rack, and brought it into the bathroom Adam is already undressed and in the bath. He is almost entirely submerged, only his knees and head showing above the steaming water. When he shifts it ripples over his chin and laps at his lips. His hair and eyes look especially dark against the duck-egg porcelain and tiling. There is something predatory in that gaze, Angus thinks. He puts the toast rack down on the bath mat like an offering.

Adam sloshes clumsily upright and reaches over the rim of the tub to snag some toast. He munches swiftly through several slices, watching Angus pick up his discarded clothes and fold them into a neat stack on the chair beside the bath. He swallows with some difficulty.

"Put those on the vanity and sit down, for God's sake."

To Adam's surprise he does so without protest. Once Angus is seated facing him, legs crossed at the knee and an eyebrow quirked in impatient expectation, Adam settles back in the bath, sucks the butter from his fingers, and licks his lips. He can tell when Angus' eyes dip to his mouth and then lower because his expression immediately shifts from interest to disdain when he finally notices the lovebite.

Adam laughs, an ugly sound that makes him feel a little sick. "Oh so now you're squeamish about infidelity. Setting me up to marry a woman pregnant with a traitor's child was perfectly reasonable but _this_ is where you draw the line?" 

Angus purses his lips and looks away, and Adam's stomach clenches. But once his tongue is loosened he can't stop, the words tumble out, only getting faster and louder. 

"Force two _inconveniences_ together and hope they cancel each other out, was that the plan? Well fuck you, Angus. You pursued me, _you_ wanted _me_. Now she’s dead and I might as well be." He swallows, throat feeling constricted in the warm damp air. 

"Ignoring me won't make me go away, Angus. Look at me!"

Angus acquiesces, but his jaw is set and his blue eyes are blazing. Adam feels the burning ache of tears crawl up his throat and wishes for the burn of whiskey instead.

"Why did you help me?" Adam croaks.

"Do forgive me," Angus begins, tone already dripping with vicious sarcasm, "was that not what you wanted when you rang my office and begged me to? Did it occur to you that by even calling me you were threatening to associate me with your sordid behaviour?" Adam is silent so Angus carries on, "No, I didn't think you'd be smart enough to blackmail me, of course not. Just stupid enough to do it accidentally."

"Susie, lovely girl," he continues, voice taking on a sickly sweet patronising tone, "wrote down everything you said in a little note and left it on my desk for anyone to find. So I tootled on down to the station at my earliest convenience, not that early, _so_ sorry, I was a little busy this morning in a meeting with the Prime Minister of Great Britain, but somehow I found the time to remind those nice officers that the chap whose bail I was paying, you're welcome, by the way, was the best pal of young Mr Sherwin and had been, until so recently, engaged to that dear girl Miss Elms, God rest her, what a terrible tragedy, and who wouldn't be driven to drink and questionable decisions by such a loss."

Angus' lips are purplish and his skin looks waxy and pinched under the harsh glare of the bathroom light. Adam wonders if he might have lost some weight since they last saw each other, at that disastrous weekend away. He's a little thrilled to not find him at all attractive for a moment. Long enough, at least, to spit back: "If it was so fucking inconvenient, Angus, then why didn't you just leave me to rot? Perhaps I'd have a marvellous time in one of Her Majesty's prisons, filled as they apparently are with otherwise innocent homosexu-"

"I'm not _jealous_ ," Angus snarls, and Adam can only laugh at the non-sequitur, at the fact of the outburst declaring its own falsity. He remembers how Angus practically ordered him to this audition or that, and just happened to acquire tickets to all of his shows. Even followed him to the country to watch him shoot. His habit of memorising Adam's bad reviews would almost be sweet if it didn't hurt so fucking much. Angus straightens in his chair as if offended, jaw tight.

Realising he has been leaning forward and gripping the sides of the tub, Adam consciously relaxes, sinking down and tipping his head backwards to wet his hair again. He closes his eyes, enjoying the sensation of the warm water tingling against his air-chilled chest and scalp. He runs his fingers through the soft strands of his wet hair then links them behind his head and lets his bent legs fall apart to show off his half-hard cock, floating between his thighs.

He lets the silence stretch out, lets himself sober up. And makes Angus wait. But eventually he opens his eyes and pulls himself upright again, shifting so he's sitting at the other end of the bath, dripping hands hanging over the rim of the tub, and gazing straight up at Angus.

"The lady doth protest too much, methinks," he finally murmurs, and is gratified to see Angus flush. His lips look pinker too, and slick, as if recently licked and bitten.

"You'd make a wonderful Gertrude. And a better Ophelia," Angus mutters, but his tone isn't as scathing as it ought to be, not when his shoulders have slumped and he can't quite meet Adam’s eye.

"Claws away, Angus," Adam says, voice low and calm. "I'm grateful, really. And I didn't mean to endanger you." He pauses before adding, "I'll pay you back the bail money."

Angus huffs in irritation and makes a dismissive gesture, but that only makes Adam smile and reach for Angus' waving arm. He'll take off Angus' glasses soon, but for now he runs damp fingertips lightly over Angus' forearm and watches the fine hairs rise, feels him shiver. 

"I'm your boy, you know that," Adam says, entwining their fingers. "Let me show you how grateful I can be." And he presses his lips to the smudge of newsprint on his lover's wrist, determined to kiss it away.


End file.
